


The Many Secrets and Lies of Oliver Wood

by ImaRavenclaw



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexual Oliver Wood, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Cedric Diggory Dies, Daily Prophet, Death, Depression, Dubious Consent, Dying/Grieving, F/M, Gay, Grief/Mourning, Grieving, Hogwarts, I mean who even considers the Cursed Child canon?, Investigations, Journalism, Lies, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non AU, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, Panic Attacks, Post-Hogwarts, Pre-Hogwarts, Puddlemere United, Quidditch, School, Seduction, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Sports, Tricks, breaking up, careers, not me, some smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 06:47:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23467132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImaRavenclaw/pseuds/ImaRavenclaw
Summary: Iris Skeeter just can't help herself. Looking for an advance to the height of the journalism ladder, she finds her target. He's the most famous man in the English Wizarding World, and no one knows what goes on in his life beyond the quidditch pitch. To get her deeply riveting exposé on the life of Oliver Wood she'll have to seduce him. But will she regret the act when the information that comes her way changes her perspective on her subject?
Relationships: Cedric Diggory/Oliver Wood, Cho Chang/Cedric Diggory, Katie Bell/Oliver Wood, Oliver Wood/Original Female Character(s), Original Character/Original Character
Kudos: 8





	1. Ladies and Gentlemen, She Has An Idea!

The early morning sky rumbled from outside Iris Skeeter’s office window. She tried to tolerate the cold the day brought but eventually she just couldn’t stand it anymore, so she got up and strode to the fireplace across the cedar panelled room. That’s when she saw the next year of her life, though she didn’t know that at the time. The newspaper was left precariously on a little side table near the conversation chairs she had people sit in for interviews. The man on the cover of the Daily Prophet clutched a large trophy proudly in his hand. The headline boomed in bold letters: The Youngest Man to Win the World Cup for England. Iris narrowed her saxe blue eyes at the paper. Coming to an abrupt conclusion she gasped. She clacked around the office, off balance in heels, swishing her wand at the fire and grabbing her favourite little blue office cardigan. Then, she swooped up the newspaper and fled.

“Mr. Wexler!” Iris called, knocking impatiently on her bosses’s door. The offices of the Dailey Prophet were bustling as usual. Young witches in bright but tasteful robes scurried around delivering messages to slightly older witches and wizards, all of whom were scribbling madly or chatting away on the phone. The blend of voices mixed together to form a bizarre but soothing sound. It was calm and organized chaos. “Mrrrr. Wexxlerr!” Iris sang out. She wasn’t in the mood to be kept waiting with an idea like this ready to stroll right back out of her brain. Finally the curmudgeon opened the door.

“Ah Miss Skeeter. To what do I owe this unruly disturbance?” 

“Mr. Wexler, I have an idea. It’s really a wonderful idea. Admittedly not wholly original, but truly only something that a publication with as much magnitude as the Daily Prophet could accomplish. And Sir this would not just be a 1000 word story in any other edition of the paper. We could make a huge profit off of this.”

“Off of what?”

“A special edition magazine. Perhaps even a book!”

“Iris, are you sure that you’re ready to follow in your aunt’s footsteps? And my dear what _do_ you plan to write this big edition on? Surely you must have an idea for it, not just the idea that it’s something you want to do.” Some might frown at the seemingly unprofessional attitude Mr. Wexler exercised towards Iris, but he was an old family friend. She hadn’t done any stories of large portion yet. The only reason she even had her office was because of the relationship their families had. Well, she’d worked as an assistant for Uncle Wexler, as she called him in her younger years, for many summers in line and for quite a while before writing. All of her years through The Conservatory for Wizarding Written Works she spent at least twenty hours in this office when she could have been studying, all for diddly and squat. That was why no one could claim that Iris didn’t merit her fancy office or large responsibilities at such a young age.

“Who’s the most famous, well liked man today, last week? Probably for the next few years even. Who is he?”

“You’re pitching me child, not the other way around.”

“Just answer the question,” Iris said. She was buzzing as if she’d just injected caffeine directly into her neck. She fluffed her luscious brown hair while she waited for Wexler’s answer. He, meanwhile, was rifling through recent editions of the paper and some of his notes.

“Oliver Weasley.” Iris rolled her eyes. It was awfully like Mr. Wexler to mix names up. And he was in his late fifties, nearing retirement, and constantly forgot things. He was never exactly good at keeping up with the times anyway. “I’ve said his name wrong, haven’t I?”

“Wood my dear Wexler. Oliver Wood.”

Wexler chuckled, smooth his greying beard down a little and pushing his glasses back up onto his nose. “That’s the one. Bloody great chap he is! So inspirational. He won that Wizarding Chess Cup huh?” Iris groaned again.

“Quidditch,” Iris said. “Quidditch World Cup, Wexler.”

“Okay. Well right right. What makes you think… I mean, what is your idea for him?”

Iris smirked, adjusted her blouse, and turned the doorknob on Wexler’s office door. “Miranda, Susan, Josh!” She called, waving her hand and wiggling her fingers. The three people she called looked up and stood, coming towards the office. They filed in and lined themselves up along the wall, not quite sure what to expect. “Who of you are familiar with Oliver Wood?”

The three Junior Reporters raised their hands to shoulder height. “And do you admire him, find him attractive. Anything? Would you read even the slightest tidbit about his favourite colour or his pet’s name?”

Miranda looked shy, but she spoke up. “Do you… Do you have that information. He’s so handsome and lovely, I would just love to know more but, but I’ve never seen anything where he reveals anything more than details from past games or his brooms. Nothing about his personal life: a girlfriend, a house, any other hobbies. It’s quite frustrating actually.”

“Completely,” Susan added. “I mean, I was with him at school, but I was in Hufflepuff and he was in Gryffindor and much older than me. We only spent three years at school together and in that time we never talked. I always had a bit of a crush,” she smiled sheepishly.

“He seems very confident and wonderful,” said Josh. “I had to learn to stop being so jealous of him because my girlfriend is positively mad for him. She’s been following his career ever since he won his first Country Cup at nineteen. Then of course he couldn’t win for the next few years because the cups kept getting cancelled. She’s always sad she doesn’t know more. I find it bizarre honestly, I mean, he’s a celebrity, why wouldn’t there be more information. I don’t even know his birthday, just how old he is.” 

Iris twirled back towards Mr. Wexler. “Finnigan, Bones, Blasimouth, dismissed.” He grunted. Once his door closed he gave Iris a stern look. Then, he smiled broadly and beckoned for her to approach him. From his pocket, he drew a gorgeous ruby red pen and handed it to her. “Write your story child. I love it! An exposé on Oliver Wood. Interview, spy, go undercover. Whatever it takes. We’re selling this book. Nobody knows what everybody wants to know and that is who Oliver Wood, two time national cup winner and youngest World Cup winner, really is.” Mr. Wexler had a funny habit of forgetting previously forgotten details when he became inspired. “But you’ll have to keep your other articles going while you write this. We might not be making money off of it for a while. Try to finish soon darling,”

“Kiss kiss Uncle Wexler.”

“And file the chapters as they’re written!” Wexler called after her as she closed the office door behind her. 

At the same time, in an other corner of London, Oliver Wood was picking his clothes off of a muggle girl’s bedroom floor. The redhead lay fast asleep under her emerald green covers as Oliver went on a wild goose chase for his pants and trousers. Eventually he couldn’t stand the breeze from the window on his body anymore. Even though he knew he shouldn’t, he silently said, “Accio clothes.” The girl’s red minidress whooshed into his hands. “Fucking shit! Merlin’s beard. Accio _my clothes_.” This time the right fabrics landed in his hands. He dressed quickly and slipped out of the room without making a sound. Oliver didn’t do this often but when he did he tried to never think of whoever he left behind’s reaction at his disappearance. 

He snuck past her roommate’s door and out of the apartment, down the hall, the stairs and finally out the door. He felt weird. He felt more relaxed than he had been last night before the sex, but still heavy. There would always be something missing for him. As he walked down the street to find an alley to apparate in, he started to hear a faint whistling sound. It wasn’t the same kind of whistle as a tune or someone calling their dog. This whistle was meant for him. He followed the sound as it gained volume. Ending up in an alley, he decided to abandon the search for the strange whistle. It was then that a message appeared on the wall. 

_Dearest Mr. Wood_

_The Daily Prophet would be honoured and pleased to invite you in for another interview. We believe that you are simply a fascinating man and were wondering if we could discuss a different side to you._ _Please send an owl to Iris Skeeter if you would like to oblige us._ _We await your response by no later than March 4th._

_Yours,_

_Miranda Finnigan_

Oliver grimaced. Of course he would go, it was bad for his career if he didn’t, at least according to his manager. Oliver never thought that succeeding at quidditch would be the same as succeeding at films or music. Sure he had sports players he idolized and admired when he was young, and yes he read their interviews, but nobody seemed to care so much about their personal lives. And Oliver certainly didn’t. He just wanted their diets and training tips. It bothered him that everyone wanted to pry into his personal life, especially people like Iris Skeeter. Her aunt was notorious for cooking up salacious gossip that was nowhere near true. Thankfully she had finally retired after trying to expose Oliver’s secrets for three years. 

He apparated home and sent an owl to Iris, rolling his eyes the whole time. He’d go, but things would be no different than usual; his mouth was shut tight. 


	2. An Interview With Oliver Wood

She was positively restless, spinning around in her office chair. Oliver Wood, in her office, spilling all of his secrets. Iris wasn’t only excited about her career skyrocketing the way Wood’s had at such a young age. She was also excited to see him in person. She had before of course. The two of them had been at school together, though Iris had been four years above. Being so much older she never got to see him as a real man, the gorgeous man that he was. And, well, Iris was a human woman. Even if he asked for it she wouldn’t shag him on her desk right there or anything, she was still a lady. But a lady could look as much as she pleased.

The knock came at 10:07, which was a few minutes late. 

Mr. Wood seems not to want to be on time for anything other than quidditch games. Ask further to prove this idea. He arrived seven minutes late to our meeting!

There he was, the handsome stallion. He was tall and broadly muscular, but not so much that it became obscene. His hair was the perfect length. From the pictures taken during his later school years Iris had deduced that he’d kept it much too short before. Goodness, his eyes, his hands, everything. Rapture! She started to think that she should have taken a shot before this meeting, but it was obviously too late now.

Oliver had a similar first impression of her. He had forgotten about the Iris Skeeter from school and hadn’t quite made the connection when her name was written in the letter. He was picturing some woman in her middle age who had tortoiseshell glasses and dressed like a granny. This Iris certainly shocked him. It took a moment and a deep breath to adjust. 

“Hello,” Oliver said, “You must be Miss Skeeter.”

“Iris if you please,” she said, smiling alluringly and uncrossing her bare legs. She knew how to interview a guy like Wood. He was a twenty-four year old quidditch player. They were all mad for attractive women. Iris looked younger than her twenty-eight years, but still sophisticated. She wouldn’t flirt totally, but a little bit of it was not off the table, especially if she was enjoying herself. Iris much preferred interviews that went like dinner dates. If a subject was boring she couldn’t get a good story out of it. She wasn’t like her aunt who could just make up details and put more filler in a story than a doctor with a rich old muggle woman’s cheeks.

“Alright. Iris,” Oliver accepted her request. She motioned for him to sit in a chair and he did so. There was a strange hesitation on his face. Iris noted it on her legal pad. “You’re... You're writing something down?”

“What an intelligent observation,” Iris said dryly.

“But I haven’t said anything.” Oliver raised an eyebrow. Now the hesitation had been replaced with confusion. 

“You just look scared. Bad experiences with interviews before this one?” Iris looked up at Oliver, raised an eyebrow inquisitively, and then waited with her quill glued to the notepad. 

Oliver gulped. His Adam’s apple bulged as he swallowed his nervous feelings. He knew that even what he didn’t say would show up in whatever story Miss Skeeter concocted. That fact was frightening to him. Her aunt had been puzzled by Oliver, but it hadn’t stopped her from cooking up a fair amount of sordid details on him. This probably wasn’t the worst thing to tell the truth about though.

“Yes. I don’t understand why everyone wants to know who I’m shagging or what I do on weekends so badly.”

“Who you shag on weekends?” Iris added quickly, tucking some of her chocolate hair back behind her ear. Oliver noticed how shiny and sleek it was. Her hair was one long rectangle flowing down her back, ending right around the shoulder bones. She had a skinny face with doe eyes taking up the half of it. In Oliver’s opinion, she looked nothing like Rita Skeeter. Then again, they were not that related.

“Exactly,” Oliver sighed, in response to her additive question. “What’s the big deal?”

Iris looked up again. She had a glint in her eyes. Oliver couldn’t help but scan her secretly. This beautiful girl was going to be asking him all the questions he hated, he had to keep reminding himself of the fact. No use going all gooey at the knees now when she’d rip him in two in a matter of minutes. Cocking her head to the side, Iris answered him. “They want to be you,”

“Huh,” he was shocked. They wanted to be him?

“It’s so hard to be the first anyone. They all want to be, but they can’t. So they’ll settle for the next Oliver Wood. And they need to know how to be you. They want your history, the origin story. They need the current practices that keep you up and running. And they need your sinful secrets and salvations. They want an instruction manual.”

He couldn’t say that he was fainthearted, but there, right then, Oliver needed air. He started coughing, pounding his fist against his chest for a brief moment, before standing and nearly knocking down a side table with a vase on top. Iris cringed and tried to save her flowers, but she was more distracted by Oliver. At first she’d tried to scribble down some notes but then she’d gotten up to go rescue the beautiful man stumbling around her office. Oliver was palming the cedar panel nearest to the window. Breathing heavily, he tried to wrap his thoughts around everything Iris had told him. Deep down he had always known that it was true, but it was the way it was so bluntly put, right to his face, that made him sick. “Please don’t put this in your story,” he managed to splutter out.

Iris completely abandoned her journalism fangs in that moment. Unprofessionalism wouldn’t even begin to describe it. She took Oliver’s hand, gave it a little squeeze, and then said, “I promise.”

He wiped his forehead and, equally unprofessionally, wrapped her in his muscular arms. Iris’s eyes flew open, but then she settled into the comfortable embrace. 

“I’m sorry,” He laughed. “I’m going a little stir crazy,” His face fell right after he said it. “Off the record, right?”

She wasn’t quite sure that anything ever could be “off the record,” but she did nod for this too. Oliver didn’t seem as confident as she thought he’d be. He, on the other side of the sitting area was practically hitting himself over the head with a broom. He knew that nothing was really off the record either. There was a lot of thumb twiddling for the next few minutes. Neither of them quite knew what to say. They both had bludgers in their throat. Iris’s lips parted and Oliver looked out the window. He was cute. Get your head in the fucking game girl, Iris thought to herself.

“So, we’ll start with something easy, yeah?” 

“Okay,”

“What’s your favourite colour?”

“Red.”

Iris scoffed. “I knew you were going to say that.” 

At the end of the interview, Iris gave Oliver her card. She had realized throughout the course of the interview that she wouldn’t get any useful information from him simply by inviting him to the cedar cell and offering him a mint tea. No matter how many cuppas the boy downed, he wouldn’t say anything.

“I’m not going to print my story,” Iris told him. They were standing in front of the office door. Oliver was pressed up against the dark cherry coloured wood. He stood tall over slight little Iris. Oliver loved the way that her hair fell across her back when she looked up at him. Then he mentally scolded himself for having those kinds of thoughts about a woman who could have just ruined his life. 

“You’re not?” Iris bit her lip and shook her head. He still hadn’t taken the business card. It was an old fashioned stark white paper with shiny silvery lettering. Iris took his hand out and placed it in his palm. 

“It would be too… Well, y’know.” She let the words creep out alluringly from the back of her throat. “I want to see you again.” Then she practically pushed him out of her office and sassily spun herself back towards her desk. “Bingo,” she said to herself triumphantly. Really, she hadn’t expected the interview to go that well. Knowing herself she expected to get more out of him than just trivial stuff like his favourite thing about quidditch. However, she’d had her backup plan since the start. Since before she’d marched into Wexler’s office even.

If Wood had just met her out and about, in a bar for example, or in a shop, he would later have been scandalized when the question of where she worked came up. Their blossoming relationship would be ruined by all the consuming thoughts that his name would be plastered on page six two months after the breakup.

Oliver left the headquarters of the Daily Prophet in a hurry. He felt all flustered and anxious. With every shred of his being he hoped that Iris would not print the story on him. He’d only answered bullshit questions but it was the way he’d acted that worried him. And Wood was so absolutely horny I could barely keep him off of me. The reasonable logic-oriented side of his brain told him that it really wasn’t that bad. There was a little mindless flirting, and okay yes, an anxiety attack, but really. 

He went home and collapsed in his apartment. “Fuck!” When he wasn’t feeling well enough to go to bed he simply lay on the kitchen floor. There he curled himself into a tight ball and pressed his cheek to the cold stone. That’s when the tears started. They rolled down his face and salted his lips. He was so angry he couldn’t take it. At one point he impulsively hit his head against the floor. The pain sent a jolt to his nervous system and stopped the tears. He peeled himself off the floor and pulled open the drawer freezer, rummaging around for an ice pack or some peas. “Go to bed, Oli.” He knew who the voice belonged to. When he looked up, there he was. Cedric Diggory was sitting on his kitchen counter, right by the sink. “Go to bed. And stop hitting yourself for Christ sakes.”

“This was the first time,” Oliver replied bitterly, back with his face on the floor. 

“You don’t want to join me in this hell hole. Everyone is way too happy.”

“I don’t even believe in Heaven, dumbass.” 

“Fine. Suit yourself. But go to bed.” 

Oliver felt a tugging on his sleeves and on the fabric covering his back. “Cedric, stop.” He could feel the other boys hands trying to drag him to his room. “Seriously stop, I’m sleeping here.” He felt a cold, slobbery tongue go up his face. One of his eyes opened. His dog, Treacle shot him another tongue dart and Oliver groaned. “Ick!” 

Finally, he went to the bed in his room. Sleeping through the whole day, he wasn’t again bothered by any visions of Cedric or the dog. His snores almost rumbled the whole apartment. He hadn’t really managed to fall asleep the night before; the nerves for the upcoming interview sank their teeth into him all night. 

When he finally woke up, he saw Cedric again. In recent years the boy had become sort of like an imaginary friend. But not like one from childhood, who you played with and never wanted to let go. Cedric Diggory reminded Oliver of every mistake he’d ever made with his life. He came to the apartment when Oliver was at his lowest points: meaningless hookups, anxiety, ratty nostalgia, alcohol intoxication. “Go away!” Oliver shouted at him through gritted teeth. He took the pillow he’d been smushed in and chucked it at Cedric, who was sitting in front of Oliver’s open bedroom window. As soon as the pillow went through his body, he disappeared and Oliver groaned. “Fuck!” He patted the bedside table for his wand. It wasn’t there. It was probably in the pants he’d taken off before crawling into bed. He picked up the jeans and fished around in the pockets. Recalling his pillow back in, he went back to sleep. He’d get as much of it as he needed before quidditch season started again. 

Iris had a more normal day. She drafted multiple introductions of the Oliver Wood story, then went home for lunch. Her King Charles Spaniel yipped happily at her return. She took her two hours to have a nice glass of cabernet and page through a novel. She loved how being an adult allowed her the freedom to drink without it needing to be a binge. When she went back to work, a wide eyed Susan Bones and Miranda Finnigan awaited her.

Immediately, Susan pounced. “You interviewed him today didn’t you?”

“What did you get? What did he tell you? Is he dating,” Her face fell, “Aw, he probably is.” 

Iris rolled her eyes. How horrible ditzy of them to spin around in her interview chairs, waiting for her return, just to ask her about their dirty desire. “Ladies, as much as this would be an excellent four o’clock tea discussion I think it best that I not discuss my story with anyone else.”

“Aw come on Iris!” Miranda cried. “At least tell us if there’s a rock.”

“He’s twenty-four.” Susan said to Miranda, positively shocked. Iris rolled her eyes and groaned. She’d never been one for lewd girly talk. Iris had always kept her sexuality right in the pit of her heart. The sexiest girl only shared her exploits with the closet people in her life, in her opinion anyway. When she spread her legs she kept the secret. It could be hard separating her journalism side from her private life though. When she didn’t put her writer to sleep properly it was worrying the kind of shit she could churn out at a work girl’s lunch.

Susan and Miranda had begun fighting over whether or not Oliver was the type to get married at such a young age. “He’s not the type,” Iris finally said. All she wanted was for their stupid squabble to be over.

“If I tell you what my plan is, will you go away?”

They panted, mouths wide. And they nodded too. “I’m going to seduce him.”

“Didn’t you already?” Susan scoffed. She was talking about the royal blue second skin that Iris was wearing. It brought out her hazel eyes and showed just the right amount of legs without any cleavage. She simply rolled her eyes at Susan’s quip.

“Yes, now out! I have a story to draft.” The girls obeyed, scurrying out in a giggle. “And he didn’t say anything about a girlfriend.” The girls whooped. “But I need dibs.” They nodded their heads obediently. Both of them knew that Iris would never be able to write her story without the time alone with him.

She knew it too. And three days later, just a she expected, Oliver took the bait. 

One night, feeling lonely Oliver decided to phone Iris. It was on a stupid whim, after a glass of scotch. She didn’t pick up the phone quickly, as he’d expected. Instead, she picked up right as he was about to hang up.

“Iris Skeeter speaking.” Little did Oliver know she was smirking on the other side of the phone. He began to pace around his apartment like he usually did on a call. If Oliver ever had to loose weight, he would call his muggle grandmother and listen to her ramble on. Treacle followed him around, paws clacking on the old hardwood floors. 

“Hi, this is Oliver.” 

“Oliver?”

Oliver gave the dog a perplexed look. “Oliver Wood.” He said.

Wow, even the damn interviewer finds you forgettable. The dog said.

Oliver covered the phone with his hand, “Shut up,” he said to the dog. Of course he knew that the dog didn’t actually speak and that the reincarnation of his best friend wasn’t real either. He wasn’t delusional. Sometimes it was just nice to talk to someone who couldn’t give his life away. The dog was there and Oliver’s therapist had suggested that Cedric’s manifestations were likely a result of his loneliness combined with either lack of sleep, or Oliver’s occasional potions abuse.

Iris giggled on the other end of the phone. “I know who you are. I was just kidding.” Oliver chuckled at this. She had quite the sense of humour. “Honestly, I was just a little surprised that you called. I didn’t really expect it.”

Oliver ran a hand through his hair and inhaled. “Why not?”

“Well, I figured you’d think I was lying about not running the story. That I just gave you my card to get information later on.” Iris had once dated a six foot five muscular muggle who was getting his masters in psychology. He had large hands and a name like Chip or Trip or something else blatantly moronic. He’d taught her all sorts of little manipulation tricks and tactics without even knowing that they’d be of any use to her. He would just always come home chattering away about his lectures and throwing a bookmarked textbook her way. 

“No, I mean yes kind of. Anyways, would you like to grab a drink at the Leaky Cauldron later?”

Iris raised an eyebrow at her spaniel, who was laying on the floor at her feet. “The Leaky Cauldron?” She whispered to him. The dog kept sleeping. She put the phone back to her ear and suggested they meet at a different bar, a place that Iris found more trendy. She would never dare outwardly state the fact to Oliver though. Discounting his taste would not be a good start to her story. 

Two hours later they met at Cordelia’s. Oliver was wearing a flattering blue button-up but he still looked out of place. Iris strode up to him with her same confident march. Oliver tried not to stare but he couldn’t help it. Her tight deep purple pencil skirt had a slit that ran just the right amount up her leg, and her black buttoned blouse showed no cleavage but made him wonder what was underneath. She observed Oliver in much the same way he observed her: the shaggy hair, the nose that sloped a little two far before it curved up quickly, his bright furiously focused eyes. Both of them were so tired of hooking up with muggles. 

“Hi Oliver,” Iris said, hoisting her small body up onto a barstool. Oliver was just about to ask what she wanted to drink when she beat him to the punch. She flashed a smile at the bartender and said, “Fire whiskey please.” 

“I’ll need your ID.” The wizard behind the bar said. Iris blushed and Oliver chuckled, turning towards her.

“I take it as a compliment.” She shrugged, sticking her wand in her purse and getting her Prophet Profession ID out. The bartender thanked her and she threw it back into her purse without a car in the world. 

“How old are you really?” Oliver asked her. “I vaguely remember being at school with you, but I can’t remember the exact age difference.” 

She feigned shock, “My my Mr. Wood. It is incredibly impolite to ask a lady her age.” There was silence before they both laughed heartily. Iris’s fire whiskey arrived and so did Oliver’s vodka rocks. 

They talked about meaningless things for an hour or two. The sun sank in the sky and London’s sugar shaker spread snow across the city. Iris knew she couldn’t just bombard Oliver with questions or push him into anything too quickly. He would scare like a house cat faced with a lion. At heart she was an impatient girl, but she took few deep breaths and tried to see the moment through. She would do whatever it took. 

At the end of the night Oliver offered to walk Iris home. He sort of thought that they would go up and have sex but he wasn’t expecting anything just because of a few drinks. Even if he was Iris would have said she was tired but that she’d had a nice time. If she wanted to get her answers then he could not be under the impression that she was in it for a one-night stand, even though that would ordinarily be what she’d be doing. 

At the steps of her luxurious townhouse, they spoke their last words of the night. Oliver complimented her on the building and she merely shrugged. “Inheritance,” she said as she dug in her purse to find her keys. “Let’s see each other again soon. Night,” she said but made no move to go in.

Oliver didn’t really know what to do. This was not exactly a date by his standards, and it certainly was not a hookup. Would a kiss on the cheek be strange? He concluded not, and so leaned in to press his lips to the side of Iris’s head. “Good night.” He said. She looked up at the sky a little nervous, but then didn’t really mind much. 

Iris expected him to walk away, but he stood with the street trees as she went up the steps. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure that you get in safe. Just pretend that I’m not here.” He shouted from the street. She laughed in a charming way, her long shiny hair shaking. Oliver really did think that she was beautiful. 

“Very chivalrous.” She put her key in the lock and opened her door, sliding inside. Oliver waved from the moist concrete sidewalk and she reciprocated the gesture from behind her windowed front door. She released the door curtain from is wrap at the top of the door, then peeked behind it. As Oliver walked up the street, presumably to find an apparition spot, she watched him. Her dog came over. Iris turned and patted the top of his head. “Am I a bad person Thad?”

The dog yawned. Iris took that as a no. As much as she loved her Aunt Rita, she knew that she lacked journalistic integrity. It took a certain amount of sadism to watch subjects squirm from the untrue words she put out. Though Iris would never openly admit that her aunt printed untrue facts, she knew it deep down. It deeply affected her pursuits of stories. What was the point of writing for press if what you were saying was all made up? If that was the passion then might as well pursue fiction instead of ruining other people’s lives with gossip.

What Iris hadn’t realized at that point was that sometimes the truth was more damaging than the lie.


	3. Alea Iacta Est. The Die is Cast

Very early on in life, Iris had decided that a good routine was the foundation of a good life. If everything was organized and stable then it would be easier to find her way back after a storm. As such, she could be caught doing the same things each day. She thanked Merlin that she was not a journalistic subject, as it would be all too easy to investigate her.

As much as she liked her routines she had no trouble abandoning them for a good story at a moment’s notice. So, at eight on a chilly Thursday morning, when she’d normally be having coffee with her dad, she had no problem skulking around London with a notepad. Lucky for her, Iris’s little brother had recently been traded to another team from Puddlemere United, and therefore knew the team training schedule. It had taken some rather childish whining but her brother had finally caved. He had sent her a laminated timetable the previous evening. On Tuesdays and Fridays, the pitch was seen-to by the caretaker, and no practice took place. 

It wasn’t terribly hard to find someone you were actively looking for in the wizarding world. Wizarding Europe was a small place where anyone who wasn’t hiding could easily be run into. There were only small corners of magic tucked away from the muggle world. The only cities were in Russia, Germany, and Italy, hidden in large long-abandoned fields. By muggle standards, they would not even be considered cities. Truly they were just wizard-only communities with populations exceeding 30,000. In England, if you wanted to find someone all you had to do was look a little.

Besides Diagon Alley, there were two other areas considered wizarding areas in London. Both were newer and trendier, such as the one where Cordelia’s Lounge was located. Iris went to the first and searched cafes and stores, finding no trace of Oliver. She was observing the mangos in one of the grocer’s before going to the next neighbourhood when it hit her. Oliver wouldn’t hang around in one of these neighbourhoods because he was different. Any information on him that did come through was never what people expected. He liked what he liked and he would not let anyone tell him differently. An example of that was in one of the sports articles Iris had read in her research: Wood’s Loyalty to His Team and His Favourite Broom. Oliver’s lucky broom was a Moongazer 47. It was an excellent broom but many better ones had come onto the market since it’s release. And yet Oliver never gave it up. It was the broom he’d won every game with. Now, according to the same reporter, he did have a new broom. His manager had allegedly pushed him into accepting a sponsorship from Nimbus. The reporter had no proof, of course.

Iris found him in the Leaky Cauldron. He was sitting in the back of the pub with a bowl of warm stew. She hid in the shadows near the entry, observing him. As he ate, he read a book. She fixated on him for a mere five minutes before letting out a small groan. Nothing eventful was happening. What do I expect though? I’m spying on him in a lodger’s pub at eight in the morning. 

Iris felt stupid. It was as if she was a schoolgirl with an obsessive crush. Nonetheless, she stayed to observe. That’s when the bartender saw her. “Miss, what can I get you?” 

Shit! Iris thought. Oliver looked up but before he saw her she had shrunken down into her animagus. 

Oliver had just been ignoring a quiet morning in the Leaky. He never usually came here during the day but he always figured that doing things that were out of the ordinary kept one’s spirits up. He was most certainly in need of some pepping. After his bar meeting with Iris, he walked home from her townhouse and decided to go straight to bed. Today was probably the first day in months that he’d managed to pull himself out of bed before nine o’clock. He was amazed by how good it felt to see the sun creeping up into the sky and breath the air of dawn.

This was the cycle. For a few weeks at a time, Oliver would be in a seemingly never-ending downward spiral of sickness and self-destruction. He’d stay up late drinking top-shelf liquor and laying on his kitchen floor. Then, after a couple of weeks of moping, he always woke up one morning with a brand new attitude. For the next handful of weeks, he would clean his apartment, run with Treacle, and take care of himself. But it was always inevitable that he’d end up back on the kitchen tile, crying about the past. It was hard when he still hadn’t fully accepted his unhealthy side. 

But as he ate his stew he tried to take his mind off of it. He tried to breathe and focus on the book in front of him. But there was a small voice in the back of his mind that wouldn’t leave him be.

Someone’s watching you.

There was always something; something he was doing wrong, someone else doing something wrong, or something going wrong around him. He always tried to push the thoughts away, crafting a carefully constructed dam to place them behind. 

There’s nothing, he said back to the voice. Just as he turned a page in his book, Old Tom spoke from the bar. Oliver hadn’t quite heard what he’d said but was sure that Tom was talking to him. There was no one else in the pub.

All he saw when he looked up was Tom’s face of confusion. “Everything alright, Tom?”

“I thought… Well, there was a person there, but they’ve gone and disappeared.” 

Oliver looked from Tom to the spot he was staring at. There was indeed no one there. However, sitting in the corner was a brilliantly red fox. It had a bored expression on its face, which Oliver then wondered about. Could foxes even be bored? And what was a fox doing in the middle of London? Tom’s nearly blind eyes finally saw the creature. He ran over with a cleaning broom and pushed it out the door, hissing “Shoo! Shoo! Get out!”

Oliver shook his head, baffled by the strangeness of the situation. Then, he went back to his stew and didn’t give the curious fox incident another thought. 

Perhaps if Iris had somehow seen Oliver’s inner turmoil her excursion might have been worth it. Iris knew that as a last resort she could easily bend the law and use ligilimency or veritaserum on Oliver, but it didn’t seem very honest. Besides, she enjoyed the hunt. There was something to be said for researching and observing. It made her feel like investigating was something that could not be easily done by another eager witch or wizard. It was a practiced skill. Perhaps even a natural talent one could only acquire through the lottery of genetics.

After transforming back into her human form, she walked up the street where the Leaky Cauldron was and started the long walk back to her townhouse. Just as she was rounding the corner at the end of the street, she ran straight into someone. Iris spluttered out a few apologies. The man was holding her in place, allowing her stability to get up. Before she had properly stabilized herself, she looked up to see who it was.

“Urgh, get off me you bloody loser!” She cried as soon as she saw his face. The man didn’t let go. Iris started weakly slapping him and made a disgusted sound. In one quick motion, he hoisted her up to her feet. She clambered around in her six inch heels, trying to find her balance. 

“Lovely to see you too, Iris.”

Finally stable, Iris huffed angrily. She smoothed down her skirt and scowled. “What are you even doing in London, Reece? You’re supposed to be in—”

“Norway? Got back last week. I finished my story early.”

Reece Wellward was Witch Weekly’s featured reporter. He was also Iris’s least favourite person in the world. They had a romantic history but she refused to acknowledge it. In particular, it was the professional area of their relationship that agitated her so much. Whenever Iris was assigned a cutting edge story, Reece would catch up to her more and more every day. He had an irritating talent of figuring out whatever profile she was working on and working to get a story of the same sort into Witch Weekly before she filed hers for the Prophet. Whenever Reece came up with his own ideas they were ingenious. They were also too quickly executed for Iris to swoop in. The two of them were rivals in the industry. Both of the young journalists were first and foremost profile writers. It was up to them to find the interest of the moment and reveal all there was to tell. It was horribly annoying having someone else in the field who Iris would agree matched her level of talent. 

Reece sucked in his lips. He was waiting expectantly for Iris to say something. Iris was more concerned with hiding her story than responding to him. If he found out about her Oliver profile then she could kiss it goodbye. 

“So, word has floated that you’re working on something new. Need any help?” Reece smirked, raising an eyebrow. 

Iris glared. “Not from anyone. Especially not from you.” She spun around and started to stomp off, but before she could get anywhere, Reece dragged her back by the wrist. 

“Not so fast,” he said, “I know what you’ve got.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Three words: Quidditch Cup winner.” 

Iris scowled and pulled he wrist away from Reece’s grip. “Personally I think it’s a little tough for you. I’m not saying that the Prophet shouldn’t be the one to cover it, but maybe you should hand it over to a more experienced journalist. It’s for the best.”

Iris left. She didn’t even acknowledge his ridiculous opinion. She was an experienced journalist. She knew how to crack guys like Reece Wellward and Oliver Wood and she knew how to write about them when all of their secrets spilled out.

She would write this portrait no matter what.

This was her moment.


	4. There's No Such Thing As Free Lunch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I did a notes of this here is information that you did not ask for.
> 
> The story starts in April of 2001.
> 
> Oliver's birthday - March 7th 1976. His age at the start of the story is therefore twenty-five.
> 
> Iris's birthday - August 30th 1972. Her age at the start of the story is therefore twenty-eight, but she's turning twenty-nine. 
> 
> Quidditch Info
> 
> The English League Cup takes place EVERY YEAR from April - August. The Quidditch World Cup takes place EVERY FOUR YEARS from December to August. And the European Cup takes place every two years from September to March (organized so that players can continue to play for their team and their country if they so desire.)

A week and a half after the fox incident in the Leaky Cauldron, Oliver had fallen back into hopelessness. No matter where he went for the last two weeks he always caught a glimpse of someone in the shadows watching him and there was no way he was imagining it. It made him feel uneasy. He was only able to relax in his own apartment and on the practice pitch. 

Things looked up for him slightly when he received a call from Iris—of course he remained unaware that she had been the one following him for the past two weeks. Oliver hadn’t picked up the phone, so she’d left him a voicemail. He was still shocked that Iris had a cell phone. It wasn’t common for wizards to own one. Oliver supposed she must have had some relationships with muggles in the past. There could have been other reasons of course. They were convenient little things and Oliver thought, frankly, that all wizards should move on from fireplace communication. It was always such a hassle. 

“ _Hey Oliver. I had fun the other night. I was planning on grabbing lunch at a new place tomorrow. Join me? You’ve got my number_.” 

“The other night,” Oliver scoffed. She was referring to their meeting at Cordelia’s. That was most certainly not the other night. However, the message caught his attention. He played it again. It was short, sweet, and to the point. Oliver felt as if he’d ripped open a candy bag and resolved to just have one, only to find himself devouring the whole package moments later. Her voice was a delicate cream. 

Oliver tried not to get too absorbed. He knew that he couldn’t just start trusting journalists because they _said_ they wouldn’t publish his secrets. Words and promises didn’t mean much to him anymore. He’d learned to be wary of people the hard way. The thoughts he was having were beginning to go in a dangerous direction. A loud rumble came from his stomach and he took it as a sign that he should eat something to take his mind off of its death track. 

Cedric strolled into the kitchen, trailed by Treacle. Oliver knew the dog had only come into the kitchen for the meat Oliver had just taken out of the fridge. 

“She asked you out on a date?” Cedric asked without looking up. He was reading the label on a milk carton. _What a ridiculous thing for a dead person to do,_ Oliver thought. It wasn’t as if Cedric needed to start watching his calorie intake any time soon. He was dead. He wasn’t even a ghost, just a coping mechanism that Oliver was struggling to accept he’d adopted. 

“According to the therapist I’m not supposed to talk to you,” Oliver said, taking the meat his dog had sniffed out and turning it into beef patties for dinner. 

Cedric leaned against the counter and gave Oliver a hurt look. “So you’re really not going to talk to me?”

“Cedric, you’re not real. I mean, you are, but not this version of you.” 

And, because saying it aloud made it that much more true, Cedric disappeared. Oliver breathed a sigh of relief that he didn’t have to deal with his insubordinate consciousness anymore. He finished making his dinner, nearly burning it to a crisp because he was truly a terrible cook. He contemplated what to respond to Iris the whole time. Oliver had no idea what to say. He wanted to appear suave and cool, but the truth was that he hadn’t been either of those things for quite some time.

Two hours later, on the other side of London, Iris was smacking her cell phone over and over again in her hand. The impatience was crawling up her spine and taking hold of her head, rocking it back and forth. She had sort of expected Oliver to call her back more quickly. Then again, she had called him in the middle of the day. She hadn’t been doing this the whole time waiting for his call of course, she had a life! It was just that the past ten minutes had been particularly stressful. What if he didn’t call back? What if the story failed?

For two weeks she’d had Reece’s voice in her head, telling her that she wouldn’t succeed with her project. Ever since then, she’d resolved to beat him into the ground with her pretty little hands. 

Thad was laying on the floor, eyeing her. She walked over to the dog and picked him up, bringing him to the couch. “Thad, he’s playing hard to get.” She sighed. Her phone began to buzz then and she sighed again, but this time in relief. She waited for it to ring for a second or two, then quickly flung it open and pressed it to her ear. 

“ _Hello this is Arnaud Burrows from HSBC Holdings,_ ” said a man on the other end of the phone. Iris hung up quickly and chucked the little cell at the other side of the couch. Stupid spamming telemarketers.

Iris had never been one to chase after men. They always came to her. But she knew that Oliver was smarter than any stupid muggle psych major. He wouldn’t trust her quickly. She had a plan of action of course, but she honestly had no idea what to expect from the tall handsome quidditch player.

It was dark by the time he called back. Iris had waited by her phone for a while, refining story notes but still glancing at it every couple of minutes. She grumbled to herself as she drafted a preface with her quill.

We all know Oliver Wood. Without him England could not have claimed the World Quidditch Cup. He played an instrumental role in the Battle of Hogwarts. He has contributed to our culture and our peace. But who is he really? Someone who carries mind bending secrets from his youth and traumas the everyday person can only imagine.

“I don’t know who he is,” she moaned to Thad as she crossed her falsity out. The last line obviously wasn't true, at least to her knowledge. The dog yawned in a bored manner from his cushion at her feet. 

Iris’s phone rang again. She rolled her eyes and prayed that it would not be that stupid telemarketer from fake HSCB Holdings. She didn’t even have an account there so he was completely playing himself. But when she picked up the small silver flip phone the name on the screen brightened her eyes.

“Speak of the devil,” she winked at her dog and picked up the phone. “Iris Skeeter speaking,” her voice was airy and welcoming. She didn’t realize it but Oliver gulped before speaking.

“Hey, it’s Oliver,” he said. Then he added, “Wood,” just to avoid being the fool again. 

“I know,” Iris giggled. Welp, she wasn’t really a giggler but she supposed that it had just come out like that. 

“Well, I was calling to take you up on that offer.”

“Oh, excellent.”

“So…”

“Well, it’s quite near the Ministry of Magic actually. Should we just meet at my place?”

Oliver was skeptical about trying to apparate there. He’d only ever been in the front of the house and The Ministry of Magic certainly wouldn’t approve of him appearing there where muggles could easily see.

“How about we just meet at the newshop in the Ministry?”

“Sounds good,” Iris said. 

It certainly sounded better than illegal apparition, but it still made Oliver nervous. The Ministry was always crowded. And aside from the fact that it always felt as if dozens of people were strangling him when he was in a sea of bodies, in England, everyone typically knew who he was. But even when he was a stranger, crowds were still one of his greatest fears. He had a brief flash of being in Mumbai to play quidditch in India, where he had ended up not being able to go his match because he had been so overwhelmed by everything. 

“Do I have to wear something fancy?” Oliver remembered to ask just before he hung up. Knowing himself if no one mentioned the dress code he always tended to show up wearing the wrong thing. 

“Nope. It’s just a grill.” 

Both of them hung up their phones at the same time after a quick “goodbye see you then.” They’d agreed on a time and were set on the News Shop.

Oliver was up at five the next day for his early morning quidditch practice. Louis Bordeaux, his captain, was waiting for him. Oliver always arrived forty-five before his teammates. Louis was grooming him to be captain and wanted the extra practice time to work on his technique one on one. Of course, the final decision laid in the hands of their coach, but Bruce had practically already given Oliver the spot.

Being captain of Puddlemere was all that he’d ever wanted and now it was finally within reach. Louis was set to make a transfer in the next year or two, and then the spot would be Oliver’s. Quidditch was an odd sport, not in terms of the game but in the “business” dealings that took place behind the scenes. Most of the time, players stayed with the team they first played for. But if a player got to be really good, or a team moved up in the ranks, there would be trades. There was also some instances where players would get replaced during the time they played for a team in a different league. So far in Oliver’s career, he’d won the English League cup through Puddlemere three times, the European Cup once, and the World Cup just this past year for the first time at twenty-four. 

“Have you been feeling okay?” Louis asked as Oliver just nearly missed blocking a shot. Oliver ran a hand through his frizzed hair and sighed.

“What makes you think I’m not?”

“You just seem off your game lately,” Louis answered, catching the quaffle and getting ready to throw it back. Oliver wanted the practice to be over and it hadn’t even started. Rain hit his back in annoyingly sporadic attacks and cold air burned his lungs.

“Louis, I’m fine. Just throw the ball!” Oliver said. It came out more harshly than he’d intended, but Louis had heard worse, so he was not fazed. 

The sun eventually rose from the dark and out of the clouds, bringing practice with it. Oliver had been off his game for a long time, but no one really noticed but Louis. Oliver was trying to do better, but lately it seemed that things he’d long since managed to shove away were coming back to him. All of his regrets were lining up, waiting for the orders to end him.

It was a lot. But for now, what he had to focus on was quidditch. And Iris Skeeter, that beautiful woman who seemed to have regrets of her own. Maybe that was why Oliver could imagine himself telling her things he did not allow anyone else to know. But not yet. His suspicions would not be quelled with a small splash of sweet talk and some acquaintance-acceptable vulnerability.

After practice he had a quick talk with his coach and then went home to get ready for his meeting with Iris. He showered and groomed, but didn’t put too much thought into it. Yes, he was interested, but they both sensed the unsureness at how to proceed. Of course, Oliver had no clue that Iris’s doubt did not come at all from something attraction related. No, she was stuck on trying to figure out ethical ways to obtain information on him. But, he just liked her legs and was stuck on whether or not he could like her heart.

He would soon find that he could, but it was the heart that she chose to show him.

Iris arrived at the Ministry ten minutes early. She was a stickler for punctuality. As she waited, presuming Oliver would be late, she browsed the Minstry bookshop. Read Your Politics wasn’t exactly an interesting place to find books, but a mediocre bookstore filled with mostly political biographies was better than no bookstore at all. The British Wizarding government hotspot would never have had a place like this during the war. But the Ministry had started expanding in the short time since the war. No longer was it a front of Death Eater supporting misery. The workspace was slowly turning into a tolerant hotspot. Expansions had allowed for a gallery of the Movement Against Magical Race Discrimination and several stores and cafes for Ministry Workers to spend their breaks or escape their offices. 

Oliver arrived just as Iris was skimming Percy Weasley’s chapter in _Ministry Workers: Redeemed,_ a new release from the idolized Garreth Proyile of Wizarding Politics. 

“Found something interesting?” He asked, Scottish brogue sending a smile to Iris’s face. Her eyes stayed fixed on her book, but she smirked. 

“Could say,” she closed the book and stuck it back on the shelf. “Just more about our interesting government.”

“Are you ready to go?” Oliver asked. 

Iris laughed in an unamused way. She looked at her watch, just to fact check herself, before saying, “ _You’re_ three minutes late. Therefore I should be the one asking you if you are ready.”

“Well,” Oliver grinned, “Good things take time.”

There was the old him: flirting, winking, and beaming. The fifth year with confidence and a shining smile. Before the terrible night of his first English league win. Before the moments with Cedric he’d been sick thinking about. Before The Battle of Hogwarts.

In all matter of facts it had been ten years since he was that content fifteen year old. But really, it was much longer. 

During the first twenty minutes of the lunch, neither of them pried. They just enjoyed their meals and the company. Oliver was weary, but even when Iris did speak, she never pushed him. Eventually the awkwardness began to fade.

“How’s the chicken?” Iris inquired, pointing her fork at Oliver’s half-finished plate. He ate fast. 

He finished his bite and said, “It’s great!”

“Do you mind if I try it? I honestly should have ordered the special. Who could say no to a meal that’s only in existence for a day?” 

“Yeah, sure.” Oliver said. He cut a piece of the chicken off and transferred it to Iris’s plate. “But I think it sucks to order something that’s not permanent. If you end up hating it then ‘good riddance,’ you don’t ever have to worry about forgetting and ordering it again. But, if you like it? Man, I would hate never being able to eat something I loved every again. I didn’t even realize when I picked.”

“So, is this life affirming chicken? Maybe I shouldn’t eat it.” Iris asked, chicken poised to take a place in her mouth if Oliver answered ‘no.’

“You’re safe,” he smiled. 

The chicken was good, but it was certainly not mind blowing. Iris was sure that if she ended up missing it then the kebab place on the corner of the street would do the same thing for fifteen pounds cheaper. 

“Tell me about your job,” Oliver said suddenly.

“What?” Iris asked, taken aback. Most people weren’t particularly interested in journalism. Sure, they wanted to read whatever came out of it, but the behind the scenes part wasn’t exactly a fascination. “My job?”

“Yeah. I mean, I suppose you already know about mine, so that’s off the table. I want to know more about what you do.”

Iris didn’t want to lie. She wouldn’t say anything about the story of course. What would she even say about that? “I’m working on this really big project right now and the focus is actually on you! Now, I know that you’ve never been vocal about any desire to speak to press about your private life before, but I don’t care because this is my big opportunity to make advancements in a career that is in the shitter unless you come up with a piece like this.” Ha, as if that would go over well.

What she actually said was more along the lines of, “Well, right now I’m a Junior Editor. I get to write small articles sometimes though which is good for now.”

Oliver nodded along but his look was a little confused. “Why were you interviewing me if you are just a Junior Editor who sometimes writes pieces?”

“Oh, well the guy who’s running the Prophet right now is a family friend. After the re-branding he gave me a job and said that I could move up quickly if I worked hard. So, I came up with an exposé type thing on you.”

“If it would help your career then why not go through with it? It’s not like I’m important to you.”

He was being oddly upfront with his questions for someone who had not met up with her that many times. She wished that they had switched and that he was interviewing her. Oliver would certainly be making more progress. But she knew that she had to be deliberate. Nothing good came to those who rushed with irresponsibility and bathed in recklessness. 

“I mean, I don’t know you, but your feelings are important to me. I’m not a carbon copy of my aunt you know. I have feelings and I know that other people have them too. At least I expect so,” she laughed to diffuse the tension. “I guess it was just the way you were in my office. No one deserves to have things published about them if they really don’t want it.”

“Thanks then,” 

“So, we’ve covered your job. Tell me about your family.”

“My family?” 

“I believe that’s a standard second date question.” 

“So, this is a date?” Oliver raised his eyebrows alluringly. Iris shoved him from across the table and smirked. 

“It’s whatever we want it to be. I wouldn’t mind a date.”

“Neither would I.”

“Good! Now, family.”

Oliver quivered a little. But he didn’t suppose that his family was an off limits subject. If you ignored the backgrounds then they were relatively normal.

“I have a little brother,” _who I don’t speak to anymore_. “And my parents are still married. Their twenty-second wedding anniversary is coming up.”

“They weren’t married when they had you?”

“Nope. They got married two years before Jeremy was born.” 

“Jeremy’s your brother?”

“Aye.”

Iris felt weird without her notepad. It was unnatural to her to listen to a subject speak without madly scribbling notes. Her furious pen strokes calmed her in a way. But Oliver’s voice was soothing too. She became sad when her free hour approached its close. 

“I have to go back to work now,” she told Oliver mournfully. They stood. Oliver stacked their dishes and after-lunch cappuccino cups to make it easier for the waiter to bring them back to the kitchen. Iris put on her wool coat and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. When Oliver looked up, he smiled slightly. She looked nice in that deep red coat. But that was not really saying much. She looked nice in lots of things. Oliver was sure that would include a paper dress and a hippogriff costume as well. 

“I hope we see each other again soon,” Oliver said to her. He got out his wallet to pay. 

“No no,”

“You don’t want to see me again?” Oliver laughed awkwardly. 

“No, it’s not that. Let me pay. You payed for drinks at Cordelia’s, it’s the least I could do.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Please let me pay.”

Oliver put his wallet back into his coat reluctantly and gave her one more look. She reassured him that she was sure and payed with a brand new Wizard Card and a coupon. Iris was so glad that Gringotts had started offering cards. They were great and convenient, offering currency in galleons but also in pounds and could therefore be used in muggle and wizarding establishments. Yet another thing that would never have existed in the reign of the Death Eaters. Nothing that suggested coexistence had been allowed back then. It was strange how much changed in just a handful of years.

“Thanks for the free lunch,” Oliver smiled as they walked out together. The cold April air was soothing after being in the sweltering grill. 

“No problem. Just call me soon and you can repay the favour.”

The two of them said their finally goodbyes for the day at the corner of the street. Oliver would definitely be repaying Iris’s favour eventually, but it wouldn’t be with food. 


	5. Reece's Pieces

**_If you want music to go with the scene where Iris is racing out of her office, may I suggest Molotov by Seeed from the playlist in my author’s journal on the forums?_ **

_**At the end of this chapter there is some violence and homophobic tone. Please always read this story with caution and seek help if you feel triggered/need to talk about something.** _

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_**Enjoy this chapter!** _

* * *

Oliver never really saw his parents. He had nothing against them, and they had nothing against him. But Jeremy had always been the favourite child, ever since his birth, and the brothers did not want to be around each other. Certain days however, it was unavoidable.

Two days before his parents’ wedding anniversary Oliver drove up to Girvan where they had retired. He could have apparated of course, but he liked to drive. It was something many wizards had started doing in past years, using spells so as not to contribute to the deterioration of the environment.

He didn’t want to be around home until the day that it mattered, so he booked a room in town and barely slept. Driving up had exhausted him; he had always hated coming back to visit his parents. It wasn’t that he didn’t love him. It was just that he always felt tired back in Scotland, the past weighing down on him. But for some reason, he wasn’t tired enough to rest. By the time he was drowsing it was three in the morning and he’d fallen asleep on the balcony, listening to comforting sounds of the waves. They reminded him of being a kid, running around in the fields and crashing down into the water. Their house had been remote. He wanted so much to go back to his childhood home, but it was where Jeremy lived, his pregnant new wife under the roof as well. She was his Hogwarts sweetheart. Oliver would have appreciated their relationship if it weren’t for the fact that Jeremy disapproved of every lover he’d ever had… One in particular. 

Around nine the next day, Oliver checked out and drove the forty minutes north to his parents’ beach cottage. It was reminiscent of the large stone country house on Barra that Oliver so cherished, but still nothing like it. His mother was happy to see him, face shinning when she saw who stood behind the red door.

Oliver handed her a gold present box and she smiled even more. “Ol, how lovely!” Mrs. Wood wrapped her son in a warm hug. She was a tall woman, sturdy and almost the same height as Oliver. He bent his head down as they embraced to breath in her scent. Sometimes he really missed his family.

“My Bhalaich!” Oliver’s father said to him as he entered the kitchen. He was making brunch. Oliver got caught up with his parents for a few moments before Jeremy entered the house. Mrs. Wood stayed with her son and Mr. Wood trotted to the entry. His booming greeting to Jeremy echo through the living space. His term of endearment for Jeremy could be translated loosely to, ‘My Little Hero’ whilst Oliver’s was simply, ‘My Boy.’ This, he thought, spoke volumes when it came to distinguishing between his and Jeremy’s relationship with their parents. Of course, it made sense cosmically. Oliver was the world’s favourite, so it would be rather unfair if Jeremy was not the family’s. The love came from different places though. 

“Oliver,” Jeremy said to his brother stiffly. Oliver cocked his head to the side. The look on Jeremy’s face brought some anger to him. It was the expression, mistakenly proclaiming that Oliver shouldn’t be here. His looks alone wouldn’t be enough to cause him to rout. Even if he wasn’t the favourite and knew it, Oliver’s parents loved him. They were proud of him too. Considering everything that had happened in Oliver’s life, he wasn’t sure it was merited. But, he remembered, his parents were rather oblivious to the years beyond childhood innocence. Jeremy didn’t even know the half of it and he was bitter. Oliver hoped they never did care to delve beyond age eleven. Most definitely not the climax, but that’s certainly where things started to go downhill. 

“Hi Jeremy. Maura,” Oliver replied finally, nodding at his brother’s wife. Her ring glinted with pride on her finger. Stomach protruding, she came over to hug him. Maura knew there was tension between the Wood brothers, but she didn’t exactly know where it stemmed from. “How’s the baby?”

“Cooking nicely,” Oliver’s father boomed cheerily. He put his arm around Jeremy and ruffled his hair. Maura stood by, smiling sugar and bright eyes focussed. 

Oliver took a deep breath, diving into the cold weekend.

The same Friday that Oliver drove home, Iris was typing madly in her office. Keeping up her weekly column assignments had been hard enough without her big story. Now she was always busy. The May sun was soothing against her hair. When she felt the back of her chocolate head it was warm to the touch. Realizing her distraction, she flew back to her muggle computer. 

Every time she hit the space bar it was a violently clack. She sighed with relief, reaching the end of her story when the door opened without a single silent knock.

“Reece!” She scowled. The tall man strode into her office, holding himself with lion confidence. The look on his face certainly matched that of one clutching a limp zebra in its vicious mouth. Iris pressed the power button on her computer madly. Knowing Reece, one glimpse at the profile of Alicia Spinnet and he’d have an identical one completed and submitted a second before hers went to press. 

“Darling,” he smirked, coming up to the desk. He pulled some Reeses Pieces out of his pocket and launched them at her, saying, “Catch!” Iris caught the orange bag and glared at it. How had he gotten these? American candy could be found but it wasn’t readily available. “I remembered you liking these.” She moved her glare up towards him. Unlike Iris, Reece had no problems bringing up their relationship. In fact, it was one of his favourite things to taunt her with. And dammit, sometimes it worked. 

“How are you?” She said, monotonically. 

“Better now that I get to gloat,”

“What?” Iris demanded, standing. “What is it!” Reece smirked that stupid smirk again and Iris wanted to slam her face against the keyboard for still thinking he was attractive. But what was she supposed to do? Lie to herself? Reece was the kind of man who achieved the perfect ‘poof’ in his hair with minimal product. He regularly had a mischievous yet endearing glint in his eyes and a smile that caused girls to melt like butter. If his author’s picture was any bigger, Iris firmly believed that his female readers wouldn’t even read the articles. 

“Last time we spoke you made it pretty clear that you could handle Oliver Wood on your own. I mean, before you did that cutesy little storm off thing you do when you’re just trying to make someone believe something.”

“Your point? I’ve got him firmly in hand.”

“Well, if you say so. I won’t give you my piece then.” 

Iris groaned as he turned and made his way to the door. For a second, all dignity was abandoned. Reece Wellward played dirty. “Fine! What’s the scoop?”

“You made such a big deal about having all hands on deck that it gives me great pleasure to announce that he left the city.” 

Iris’s face dropped. “I… I knew that.” She said, incredibly unconvincingly. Perhaps she could have pulled the lie off, were it not for the fact that she did a high heeled waddle to her coat and sped past Reece as fast as she could in her six inchers. 

He laughed wildly and followed her down the hall, long coat swaying. “I told you to let me have the story.”

“Never!” Iris barked, running to the elevators like a duck and pressing the button over and over. Reece sped up. Most people would have taken the information for themselves and quietly slinked away, but nothing was more fun for him than head to head competition. And Iris knew, that he knew, she was the one he’d always get a reaction out of when a story was concerned. 

Once in the courtyard of the office, Iris moved from foot to foot then swore, pulling back. “Shit!” She still had two weeks left of her apparition suspension… She’d splinched one too many accompanying peoples and the Ministry of Transportation took it. Appartition was the one thing she could never seem to get a handle on. But, she digressed. 

Reece leaped into the courtyard behind her. “Iris, where are you going? I don’t even know where he went, I just saw him, by chance on my way back from Daventry. I was just messing with you! A bit of fun. Seriously, you’ll never find him. You don’t know where he’s gone if you didn’t even know he was leaving!”

She ran away, shouting back to him. “Scotland!” There was a, _duh_ tone in her voice. Reece shook his as she stumbled like a bambi through the streets. 

“Iris! Iris!” She didn’t look back. “Iris there’s like two million houses in Scotland. What are you going to do? Knock on every door?” 

But, while Oliver had left for home, it was not Iris’s intended destination. As much as she thought Reece a dummy for not following him, Oliver had picked up perceptions since she’d started following him around. He’d immediately notice a fancy Londoner like Reece skulking around whatever arsefuck nowhere fishing town he’d grown up in. 

No, it wasn’t Scotland she was going for. It was his apartment. She ran and ran, ankles burning and heels clacking. Finally, she reached the entry to the Tube and clattered down the cracked concrete stairs. Oliver lived in a converted loft in Camden. Iris had followed him home many times. She was sure it was his place. 

Arrived on the street, she followed in her old footsteps. The pattern was imprinted in her brain: off the Tube, two turns right and one left. She reached the indigo front door of the building and cast an alohomora charm on it. After the door opened, Iris quietly slipped inside. She’d never actually been in the apartment building, but she knew that Oliver’s flat was on the top floor. There were only four homes in it though, so if she’d really had to knock on every door pretending to be a Girl Scout it wouldn’t have been that difficult. She clopped to the top landing and cast another charm at Oliver’s door. When she pulled the knob down however, the door didn’t open. She tried the charm again, and received no result. “Shit,” she murmured, turning a piece of straw on the floor and turning it into a bobby pin. She had been picking at the lock for only a few seconds when the door flew open unexpectedly. Iris stumbled back and was shocked to see who the woman that had opened the door was. 

The identity didn’t strike her at first, but when the woman’s face was no longer bathed in natural light, Iris knew immediately. Her caramel locks were shorter than they had been in the war; they grazed her shoulders just so. She was radiant. 

“Hermione Granger?” Iris asked, gobsmacked. Hermione chuckled a little before seeming to remember that she was basically opening the door to a would-be intruder. She didn’t glare, but she did not look pleased by any means. 

“Who might you be?” Hermione asked back, cocking her head. Iris had so many thoughts rushing through her mind at a 1000 kilometres an hour. Hermione Granger was engaged to Ron Weasley, so what was she doing in Oliver’s apartment? And while he was away, no less. Worse, she had no excuse to be here. No matter what she said, Hermione would probably owl Oliver as soon as she left. 

“I— I,” she stuttered. “I’m Sophie.” Damn. She should never have used a false name. This would get her into more trouble. Even if Iris never came across Hermione in the company of Oliver, Hermione would certainly figure out who she was if she ever saw Iris’s face next to an article heading. _Smooth_ , she thought to herself. “Yup, Sophie. I’m a friend. And, I came to pick up a book that… Oliver offered to lend to me.” It sounded like a question. “But, I didn’t know he was away, or maybe he’s here and I’ve misunderstood. The thing is, I, uh, really need that book.”

Hermione looked confused, but it was a less threatening expression than the one she’d worn before. After a moment, she extended a hand to Iris, who was still on the ground. “Well, come in. Sorry, I sort of thought you were trying to rob the place,” she laughed.

Iris followed the twenty-one year old into the apartment and took in the surroundings. For someone who seemed to only pay attention to quidditch, the apartment was incredibly detailed. The floors were all dark wood and the walls mostly grey, but other than that, nearly everything about the space was unique. Iris took her shoes off, having noticed that Hermione wore none, and continued following her. The space was open, so they didn’t have to go far. After the entrance nook there was a large living room with a dark blue couch, a Persian rug, plants, and a huge 90 inch flat screen surrounded by DVDs and video games. In the corner of the room there was a small bookshelf that she hadn’t immediately noticed.

“All of his books are here,” Hermione smiled. There was one straight line of hardbound books, and that was it. The bottom shelf housed the old school textbooks and the middle shelf was stuffed to the brim with quidditch magazines. Quickly, Iris scanned the titles. She not only found it hard to pick something believable, i.e. something not every wizard owned, but also that the books were titled what they were. There seemed to be two categories: general books and ones she didn’t expect. She couldn’t take the tattered copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, or the other four editions that Oliver possessed. She also certainly couldn’t take any of the other books that had to do with quidditch. One finally caught her eye. It wasn’t because she wanted to take it, no, never. But because it gave her a scoop, and it could get her out of the apartment. 

_At the Bottom of the Bottle: Overcoming Drinking to Forget._

“Found it,” Iris said, sliding the book off of the shelf. Hermione glanced at the cover and her eyes did some strange dance. “It’s embarrassing,”

“Not at all,” Hermione said, putting a supportive hand on Iris’s shoulder.

“Please, don’t tell him that I was here. I would be so ashamed if he found out that I’d been so desperate to get it.” 

“I’m sure that he would understand,” Hermione said sympathetically. “He hasn’t had an easy go of it himself.”

_What is that supposed to mean?_ Iris had so many questions. “Just, please. I’ll return to book to him the next time we see each other. But, I don’t want him to know that I was here.”

“Of course. It stays between us, Sophie. You can get through this. I believe in you.” 

Iris didn’t quite fancy being perceived as an alcoholic. But, anything she could do to get out unscathed and have Oliver be left in the dark, had to be done. She drank in as much of the apartment as she could while she went to the door. She could see a fragment of what she believed was the kitchen through a thin hallway. “Thanks for helping,” Iris said to Hermione. Iris very badly wanted to know what Hermione was doing there, and it didn’t seem like it would hurt. “May I just ask,” Iris started.

“Why I’m in his apartment?” Hermione cut her off, giggling a little. Hermione Granger did not seem like a giggler. Yet, here she was, laughing.

“Yeah, I mean. You’re engaged to Ron Weasley, aren’t you?”

“Er, yes. But Oliver and I are friends. I watch his dog when he goes away,” she said, motioning to a golden retriever who was dozing in the corner. Iris hadn’t even noticed it.

“Oh,” Was all Iris could seem to say. She thanked Hermione again then left the building, sighing with relief against the front door. She just hoped with all of her might that Hermione would make good on her promise not to mention the visit from Sophie the Stranger to Oliver. 

On the train, she examined the book. Why in the world would Oliver be in possession of _At the Bottom of the Bottle_? It seemed like a strange title to simply keep around. But, if Oliver really was an alcoholic, how was he hiding it so well? Iris opened the book and skimmed the pages. It was a well worn volume. At first, Iris could still convince herself that, just maybe, Oliver was in Night School. Maybe he didn’t want to retire to coaching at the end of his quidditch career. But, what about Hermione’s comment? Her words kept playing over and over in her head. _“He hasn’t had an easy go of it himself.”_ And then, there was all of the colour-coded and highlighted passages in the book. Oliver Wood had previous plays published in some journals and magazines. These book pages had more notes in the margins and highlights than Iris had seen on any of those. Why had Oliver been so invested in this information? All of the lines about forgetting the past and moving forward were highlighted. Iris resolved to be patient. It was thanks to Reece that she’d even gotten this book, but she could secure many more clues on her own. She had a trail of chocolates now. The salty sweet peanut paste kind. Reece had gotten her the first piece. Now, she just had to be patient and follow the path. But she was steaming, curiosity coming out of her ears. What was Oliver Wood hiding?

Oliver was doing a bang up job of ignoring Jeremy. His brother, however, was staring at him the whole Saturday they spent with his parents. He stared at Oliver right up until the moment that Oliver excused himself to go to bed. Oliver felt strange being in a guest room in his own parents’ house. His childhood room was being held hostage in Jeremy’s little stone Barra Island paradise. Oliver imagined that the edges of his quidditch posters were curled with age and his old Gryffindor robes were nicely folded up in the dresser. But, in reality, the room had probably been ransacked years ago. 

His sleep was uneasy. Being around his family was bringing back all of his painful memories from his school years, and even before. Oliver almost thought he’d sleepwalk from the stress of it all. Eventually, he couldn’t take the movie reel in his head anymore. He got out of the twin bed and tip toed down the creaky stairs, careful not to wake anyone.

Out on the beach, he sat and sighed. The waves were soothing him again. He really had missed the coast. Just as he was beginning to doze off from the steady rhythm, a strong hand clamped his shoulder. He looked up to see his brother’s glare of disapproval. Jeremy was five years younger and certainly not as big or as strong, but he still terrified Oliver.

“Can’t sleep?” Jeremy asked. The question wasn’t spoken very nicely. 

Oliver simply grunted, “No.” He fixed his gaze back onto the ocean, not daring to meet Jeremy’s eyes.

“Neither can I. It’s hard to do that with someone like you in my house.” Oliver ignored the jab and kept staring at the water. Silence floated between the brothers. Oliver could feel Jeremy’s hot breath against his neck. He was panting slightly, seeming to have put in effort following him down to the beach. “I want you to leave.” He said. Oliver still did not respond. “Did you hear me?” Jeremy asked, shaking his older brother. “I said I want you out, Poof.” 

Oliver turned around calmly. “What did you call me?”

“You heard me,” Jeremy taunted. “Poof.” 

“I don’t know why you still think that. I’ve told you a million times that I’m not! And if that’s why you’re still keeping me away from my family and my home, then you’re fucked up.”

“Don’t even lie to me.” Jeremy said through gritted teeth. The two men had stood by then. “I saw you with him,” 

“With who? The imaginary friend you had until you were seven?” Oliver knew the story Jeremy would be pedalling out. He’d only heard the retelling once, and he knew that Jeremy was telling the truth. But of course, he wouldn’t say that to his brother. 

Jeremy rolled his eyes and tucked his fingers into fists, ignoring his brother’s jab. “Don’t play dumb Oliver! I saw you! It was after your sixth year. You thought that Mam and Dad had taken me on the trip with them. He came over, that blue-eyed lad. The one who died in ’94.” Oliver’s hands formed fists that matched Jeremy’s as he continued on. “You two wouldn’t stop arguing. And then, you kissed him. And he ripped your clothes off in a matter of seconds. I had barely left before you two started going at it, right against the wall! I didn’t even hear the bed creak, and you left the door wide open, unabashed. I should be so lucky I didn’t see anything compromising.”

Oliver rolled his head back and scoffed. “You are such a little drama queen. You didn’t even see a kiss! Absolutely nothing happened and you’d do well to keep your trap closed. Besides, there’s nothing to say. Like I said, you never saw anything.” 

“I did. And I’d spent my first two years at Hogwarts defending you for something that turned out to be true! And on top of that, Mammy made me fucking take care of you when you kept drowning yourself in whiskey. How can you be so clueless? You messed up my schooling and you nearly derailed my relationship with Maura because all I did was sit in your house on bottle watch!” 

“I never asked you to take care of me. Mammy did. You have no reason to resent me!”

“It was enough for you to think another boy was a ride. Then, you wasted my time.”

“Shut up, Jeremy! How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not a bufter and I never asked you to take care of me!” 

Jeremy drew his fist back and hit Oliver square in the stomach. Oliver fought back, nailing Jeremy over the side of the head. “Why won’t you just fucking tell the truth?” Jeremy shouted, continuing to hit Oliver in the abdomen. The two of them fought for a while, but Jeremy was quick and Oliver was tired. After only ten minutes, Jeremy was up kicking his brother in the stomach while Oliver whimpered on the ground. He made the mistake of taking his eyes off of his brother’s helpless figure however, because, as he turned around for break, Oliver grabbed his leg and swung him to the ground. It was his turn to hit.

He hit Jeremy’s weak shoulder and hit it again. “It’s our parents wedding anniversary tomorrow! I’m bloody staying. There is nothing that you can do or say to me, to stop that. After that, I’m out of your hair.” Oliver said weakly. He didn’t want to harm Jeremy too much, so he quit hitting him and stood. Jeremy stared at him, blinking as Oliver stumbled back up towards the house, holding his hip and nearly falling every couple of steps.

The only thought in Oliver’s mind as he searched the medicine cabinet for bandages and disinfectant, was that he never should have come home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bhalaich means boy.
> 
> The book mentioned in this chapter isn't real (at least I have no knowledge of that not being the case.)
> 
> Reviews, even small ones, and CC, are always welcome! Have a great day.


End file.
